


A Past Long Gone

by Keesha



Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-28
Updated: 2016-11-28
Packaged: 2018-09-02 17:53:58
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,181
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8677207
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Keesha/pseuds/Keesha
Summary: This is set between seasons 1 and 2 and is for the Fête des Mousquetaires November challenge, ‘Gratitude.’ It takes our four heroes on a mission at the request of the Queen.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Author’s Note: As always, a huge thank you to Mountain Cat beta-ed this under a short timeline. You have no idea how much better she makes all these stories. As always, no infringement meant and love reviews!

The Captain noticed an undercurrent of tension amongst the Inseparables and was curious as to its cause. It had been more than a month since the musketeers had foiled the Cardinal's insidious plot to dispose of the Queen. Not long thereafter had come the joyous announcement that their Majesties were expecting the royal heir. The restorative waters must have indeed worked their magic on the Queen, despite the harrowing experience that had followed.

Treville could understand if only Athos seemed off-kilter; they hadn’t been lying when they told the Cardinal the man could be moody. Brooding was an innate part of Athos’ personality and the captain knew the swordsman was struggling with his decision regarding Milady’s freedom. The captain couldn't fault the man for not killing her, and to hand her over to the authorities would have been certain death too. But it seemed once again, ironically Athos was struggling to reconcile his heart with his head. Treville also knew that compounding Athos’ mental anguish was his guilt for d'Artagnan’s shooting, the street fight Milady had arranged to kill him and his brothers, as well as endangering Constance’s life. The man had many heavy self-inflicted burdens attached to his soul.

While all those events might account for some of the tension between Athos and his brothers, there seemed to be an additional strain between Aramis and Athos. If the captain was to ponder upon it, he’d have to conclude it started after the swordsman and the marksman had returned from defending the Queen from Gallagher. While Treville had been debriefed as to the events that transpired at the convent, he felt there had been a lot left unsaid by the reporting duo. He also had the impression that Athos and Aramis hadn't told the entire truth of what occurred to Porthos and d'Artagnan either, which was very strange for the close-knit quartet.

Treville hoped this new assignment, directly on behalf of the Queen, wasn't going to put a further strain on the four musketeers. Her Majesty had been very specific on what she wanted and who she wanted to carry it out. Great was the Queen's gratitude to the Mother Superior and the nuns at the convent for sheltering her, at great personal risk, from the mercenary. One of their own had perished defending her and for that the Queen felt great sorrow. While at the convent, she had noted the nuns’ lack of many necessities. While she knew they had taken an oath of poverty, she still wanted to show her gratitude and had in mind things she wanted to send them, which she hoped they would find within their vows to be able to accept. And so, the Captain was tasked, by his Queen, to have her musketeers, namely the four Inseparables, deliver a wagon load of goods to the convent, to show her gratefulness. 

Standing on his balcony watching d'Artagnan and Porthos drive the wagon full of goods through the archway with Athos and Aramis trailing behind on their horses, Treville hoped this trip would clear the air between the brothers. It shouldn't be a trying mission, though the early December weather was quite brisk, with a surprising hint of early snow. Because of the slow speed at which they would be forced to travel due to the wagon, it would require the musketeers to spend a few nights on the trail, but again, nothing unusual for the team. With a small sigh, the Captain turned away to head back into his office and the ever present mound of paperwork. Only time would tell if this was a good decision.

 

Porthos wasn't quite sure why he had to ride on the jarring wagon. The pup, of course, lost by lack of seniority and by the opposite side of the token, Athos had won. But why his behind rather than Aramis' was on this hard, uncomfortable seat was perplexing for he wasn't sure when he’d lost that argument. As he glared over at Aramis, the musketeer on horseback suddenly decided to scout ahead, though the street fighter was sure it was simply an excuse to avoid his ire. Athos followed on Aramis’ heels, happy to be able to ride faster than the lumbering pace of the wagon for a few minutes. 

D'Artagnan took advantage of the other men being out of earshot to ask Porthos' opinion on a subject that was troubling him. "Is Athos mad at me?"

Porthos, who had many more years of experience with the ruminating Athos than the Gascon, shook his head. "Ain't you. It's him. Guilt nagging at his mind. Shooting you. His wife putting us, Constance, in danger. Blames himself."

"But shooting me was part of the plan. And why should he be held accountable for his estranged wife's behavior?" d'Artagnan asked with puzzlement as he gazed up the road where the two men had disappeared.

"This is Athos we are talking about. I don't expect we'll ever know why the man feels the need to carry the weight of the world on his shoulders. Closed-mouth doesn’t begin to describe him. Hell, I've known him for years and only now I find out he has a wife." Porthos watched that peculiar squirm the lad got when he was trying to hide something and he decided to call him out. "But I'm guessing you already knew about his wife."

He knew his guess was right when d'Artagnan ducked his head and turned a little red. "I did, well, I mean not exactly. I didn't know she was Milady until Athos told us. But I did know he’d been married." 

Seeing Porthos' quizzical expression, d'Artagnan proceed to explain what had occurred at Athos' ancestral home where he had rescued the drunken musketeer from the blazing fire. The streetfighter's face grew stormy and when the Gascon had finished the tale, he swore under his breath. "Damn fool." 

It was quite clear he meant Athos, not d'Artagnan. "Too stubborn for his own good." Reaching over, Porthos clapped the lad on his shoulder. "Well I'm grateful you were there to save him, d'Artagnan."

Up ahead, the two mounted musketeers reined in to wait for the wagon. When the lumbering vehicle caught up and they were able to walk abreast, Athos declared, "We're going to have to camp out tonight. At this pace we won’t make it to any inn. Aramis and I will scout ahead. Look for a good place to stop."

"You just wanna gallop a few miles for fun, while we tool along haulin' this...stuff." Porthos gestured over his shoulder at the cart, which under its tarp, was heavily laden with items.

"Now Porthos,” Aramis started in an earnest tone. “I'm sure Mother Superior and the nuns will be very grateful for the Queen's generosity." Though his tone was solemn, the twinkle in his eye was anything but.

"Says the man on the horse and not the hard, wooden plank, which I swear is leaving splinters in my ass," Porthos grumbled unhappily as he shifted his weight on the seat once again.

"When we stop for the night I will happily... " Aramis paused a moment, "well maybe that's not the right word. But as the resident medic, I shall endeavor to ease your discomfort from any small wooden objects that may have unpleasantly embedded themselves in your posterior region."

"You'd better ride off fast before I climb off this wagon, drag your sorry ass off that horse and give it an unpleasant experience," Porthos threatened as he made as if to stand.

"And we're off," Aramis exclaimed pressing his heels to his horse's black flanks.

Roger, seeing his stablemate take off, tossed his head and stamped his hoof impatiently. Athos gave the two men on the wagon an insincere apologetic shrug before giving his mount his head. Pouring on the effort, Roger quickly caught up with Fidget and the two raced side by side for a mile until their owners gradually eased them back to a more sedate canter and finally back to a cooling walk. 

As one, the two musketeers veered off the road towards the sound of fast moving water, onto a hard packed dirt track that would be barely wide enough for their wagon. Athos stopped briefly, drew his main gauche and left a distinctive slash on a tree trunk at the juncture, before heading after Aramis. He knew it would be spotted by either Porthos or d'Artagnan and they would know to turn the wagon here off the main road. 

A few miles later the dirt track ended in a grassy meadow, which was flanked by a turbulent river. Dismounting, they led their horses over to the water's edge for a drink. As Aramis' eyes swept the tumultuous river, he suddenly gasped. "Athos!" He gestured towards the far side of the river where a young woman was desperately trying to reach what appeared to be a small child in the raging waters. The only thing that appeared to be stopping the child from being swept downstream was a tangle of branches intertwined about the small body that were caught on the far shore.

After yanking off his hat, coat, and boots, Aramis unbuckled his weapons belt and added it to the pile in the grass. He sprinted upstream along the river's bank for about twenty yards before turning and plunging into the raging waters. The strong current immediately carried him swiftly down the river, but since he entered the water well above the point where the child was trapped, he was able to use his powerful strokes to make progress towards the opposite bank. However, it was incredibly hard to swim in the swirling river and more than once he was unexpectedly forced against random outcroppings of rocks in the wild waters. The musketeer could feel the river's freezing water leaching the strength from his limbs, making them feel leaden, and it didn’t help that he had also swallowed what felt like buckets full of the icy stuff.

While Aramis was running upstream, Athos moved to Roger's side and removed the rope looped on his saddle. Out of the corner of his eye the swordsman saw Aramis plunge into water and yelled for him to wait, but the marksman either didn't hear him over the river's roar or chose to ignore him. Athos cursed furiously as he undid the rope. How the hell did the marksman envision ever making it back without being swept down the wild river?

Scanning the trees along the river’s bank, Athos quickly selected one and secured one end of the rope around the tree's trunk. After giving it a strong tug to ensure his knots would hold, he set about stripping off all of his extraneous clothing. Tying the other end of the rope around his waist, Athos followed his brother's path upstream before diving into the foaming water.

Finally, a bruised and battered Aramis reached the jumble of branches on the far shore, and he used the tangled limbs to pull himself towards the wedged child. His progress was slow and clumsy because his fingers, not to mention the rest of his body, were numb from the glacial water. Once he was near the child, he managed to wedge his feet so he could use both hands to untangle the boy from the branches. Holding the small, shivering body close to him with one arm, he used his free hand to pull himself along the branches towards the bank. As soon as he was close to the edge, the woman lunged forward to grab the wet bundle from him. 

"Thank you. Thank you. Thank you," the hysterical woman sobbed as she hugged the dripping, crying child to her chest. "My never ending gratitude for saving my boy, Monsieur."

Before Aramis could speak, an ominous crack reverberated through the darkening sky and the tangle of branches he was wedged in broke free and began to float rapidly downstream, dragging Aramis along with it. Things happened so quickly that Aramis was quickly out of range and the woman was unable to stop him.

Athos, who had been using his powerful strokes to head for the opposite shore, saw what happened and immediately adjusted his trajectory to follow the floating marksman downstream. A grouping of rocks momentarily halted the progress of the mass of wood, which was entangling Aramis, allowing Athos to make a few swift strokes and grab his wayward brother’s arm. Unable to pull Aramis towards him because of the fierce current, Athos let himself be drawn to his brother's side, where he wrapped a solid arm around the other man's waist. For a few seconds they let the current keep them pressed against the grouping of rocks, while they struggled to catch their breath from the exertion and freezing cold of the water. 

"Hold on to me and don't let us slip off these rocks. I'm going to re-tie this rope around both of us," Athos yelled over the roar of the river. It was slow and painful work with fingers that were frozen and as stiff as wood. After what felt like an eternity, Athos finally got the rope untied from his own waist and then set about retying it around both of them, leaving a few feet of slack between them. 

"We're going to have to pull ourselves upstream," Athos ground out through his chattering teeth. It was going to be a tedious and unpleasant task, though luckily they both still had on their riding gloves.

He felt rather than heard Aramis' concurrence. Reaching for the rope, Athos numbly pulled it through his hands until he felt it go tight, removing all slack between him and the tree on the bank. Thankfully, Aramis maneuvered his body so he too could help haul on the rope, for it would take their combined strength if they wanted to make it back to the shore against the treacherous current. Inch by inch, they edged their way up the rope tied to the tree on the far bank where their well-trained horses patiently stood waiting. 

The musketeers' hands were so numb they didn't even feel the rope as it lacerated their gloves and abraded the skin underneath. At one point, Athos' right hand slipped and the rope was jerked from his left hand. He smacked backwards into Aramis, breaking the marksman's hold on the line and both musketeers were quickly drawn downstream once more, losing all the progress they had made. They bounced off another grouping of rocks before being brought painfully up short as the length of rope tied about their waists ran out. 

For a moment after they were jerked to a stop, both men wondered if they had been cut in half by the taut rope around their waists and were simply too numb to notice. After a few groans, agonizingly, hand over hand, they began to haul themselves upstream once more. Finally, they dragged their exhausted bodies out of the water and onto the shore near the tree that had secured their lifeline. Two musketeers lay, panting and shivering, on the brown grass, grateful to be alive, but too exhausted to move immediately. 

Aramis knew they risked hypothermia the longer they lay still. Reaching over, he shook Athos' shoulder as he lay next to him on the ground. "Mon ami, we need to move." 

The already sluggish, slurred reply he received from Athos had him instantly concerned and he forced his own listless body to respond, dragging himself to his feet and shaking the man next to him harder. "Get up. Now, Athos."

With a groan, the swordsman rolled towards Aramis to push onto his knees. As he turned towards Aramis, the medic saw a small trickle of blood running down the side of Athos' face. "You're hurt?" he asked with concern as he reached down and brushed aside the wet hair to peer at the wound on Athos’ scalp. He wasn't sure if it was the shock from the cold water, or the beginning of a concussion, but the usually obstinate Athos allowed his ministrations without fuss. 

"How do you feel," Aramis questioned with concern. "Pain? Nauseous? Double vision?"

A mighty shiver racked the swordsman's lithe frame. "I'm too numb to feel anything."

Aramis smiled as he helped the frozen musketeer to his feet, taking the wry comment as a positive sign. He gave a short wave to the woman on the opposite bank, who nodded before disappearing into the woods with her child held tightly in her arms. The rumbling of wagon wheels drifted through the air and both men and horses turned to watch the vehicle roll into view. The marksman felt the man next to him shiver again, which triggered his own freezing body to respond in kind. 

"Are they wet?" d'Artagnan asked with astonishment as he drew the wagon to a halt at the end of the track. Almost as if by some sort of cosmic joke, snowflakes began to drift slowly down from the grey sky.

Leaving d'Artagnan to tend to the horses and wagon, Porthos leapt off the bench of torture and hurried to his brothers’ side. "What happened to you?" he demanded of the two wet musketeers.

Always one with a quick witticism, Aramis said, "Thought we'd take our baths first." The humor fell flat however, as the words were delivered through chattering teeth and blue tinged lips.

"We got to get a fire going, get you out of those wet clothes and warmed up," Porthos declared, taking charge of the situation. It concerned him that Aramis and Athos were standing around like nothing was wrong. Obviously, the cold was affecting their reason.

Within the space of an hour Porthos and d'Artagnan had the camp set up with a roaring fire. Aramis and Athos had been stripped of their wet clothes and redressed in dry ones from their packs. While they were unclothed, Porthos and d’Artagnan looked them over for additional injuries. It appeared that no bones were broken when they were beaten against the rocks, though both men would be sporting horrific bruises by morning. They also had painful rope burns about their waists, though their leather gloves had protected their palms, where the chafing was lighter. The cut on Athos' head could have used a stitch or two, but Aramis wasn't in any shape to do it. The others didn't really want to inflict any more trauma on Athos, who was already displaying the symptoms of a mild concussion. 

After bundling the two shivering musketeers into dry clothes, then wrapping them in blankets borrowed from the wagon of gifts for the nuns, Porthos and d'Artagnan positioned their brothers on their bedrolls as near to the fire as they dared. The snow kept falling in a lazy pattern as d'Artagnan made a quick meal from their supplies. When it was done, Aramis gratefully accepted the bowl of warm food, but Athos had already drifted off to sleep. D'Artagnan gave Aramis a head tilt query and Aramis gave him a shake in reply; let the man sleep.

Athos slept through the meal, the cleanup and the conversation of his brothers until they were ready to turn in for the night. Regretfully, but feeling it was necessary, Aramis moved close to Athos and tried gently to wake him. The swordsman was one of those people who woke instantly ready to defend himself. This time, however, Athos woke sluggishly, his muddled green eyes blearily peering at Aramis, before starting to close again.

The marksman reached over and tapped Athos' cheek. "Athos. I need you to stay awake for a few minutes." 

The green eyes cracked open again to glare at him and Aramis laughed. "That's better. Do you know where you are?"

The eyes regarded him for a moment, then began to droop again.

"Answer my questions then you can go back to sleep," Aramis demanded, tapping him on the face once more.

Athos mumbled something which Aramis thought was a rude comment about permission, but the marksman chose to take the high road and ignore him. Knowing there was more than one way to get the grumpy musketeer to cooperate, Aramis said, "Fine.” Reaching over, he brushed aside the wavy, brown hair, then made a humming noise. "Not good. This needs stitches."

Athos immediately became more alert, jerking his head away, while swatting at Aramis' inquiring fingers. "It wouldn’t be there if you had not stupidly jumped into a frigid, raging river," he harshly complained.

Aramis sat back on his heels, hurt at his brother's insensitive words. "It is never foolish to save an innocent child's life!"

Immediately looking contrite, Athos softened his tone and unwound his hand from his blanket to brush his brother's arm. "I'm sorry, Aramis. I didn’t mean it like that. Though I do wish you would think before you...leap into things. Think about …. consequences."

They both knew that Athos was not talking about the river. The marksman's eyes narrowed. "Apparently, there is nothing wrong with your memory."

Porthos noted the strained undertones in Athos’ and Aramis' voices and once again felt he was missing something. Looking over at d'Artagnan confirmed his suspicions. However, before he could call his brothers out, both of them rolled up in their blankets, put their backs to each other, closed their eyes, and pretended to go to sleep. Porthos glanced at d'Artagnan and shrugged. Whatever was going on wasn't going to be revealed tonight.

 

Dawn's early light brought the sight of six inches of pristine white snow on the ground, which would only serve to further slow the wagon's progress. Porthos and d'Artagnan noted the flushed cheeks of their companions as they dragged themselves from their bedrolls under the wagon's extra tarp, which they had hastily hung up last night as a shelter from the snow. Aramis, in particular had a bad night with what they thought were nightmares about Savoy. Though the marksman had compartmentalized Savoy on most levels, sometimes it seemed as if snow triggered some repressed traumas still lingering in his mind

Athos and Aramis fumbled about trying to saddle their horses, refusing all offers of aid. Porthos and d'Artagnan watched with concern. They exchanged a few private words before approaching their obviously ill companions. 

"The snow is going to slow this wagon down even more," d'Artagnan announced as they were nearing the end of their preparations to move out. 

"Some, yes," Athos agreed as he ineffectually tightened his girth strap before turning to face the younger musketeer. "We won't reach the convent before nightfall so we will have to camp out again."

D’Artagnan shook his head as he walked next to Roger. "The wagon won't make it, but you and Aramis on horseback can arrive at the convent today.” Nudging Athos aside, the Gascon snugged up the girth strap before looking at Athos with a grin. “Well, now you will make it since I have tightened your saddle so it doesn’t fall off Roger."

Athos frowned as he tried surreptitiously to lean against his horse’s side for support. "We’ll not abandon the wagon."

"We're not abandoning the wagon. Porthos and I will bring it to the convent, just a day or so behind you, depending on when the snowfall lets up. You and Aramis can go tell the nuns the Queen's good news about being pregnant and then we shall bring the presents. I doubt they have heard of the joyous news yet."

Athos closed his eyes for a moment as he silently swore. Mother Superior was no fool. It never dawned on him to be worried that she, or one of the other sisters, might know what happened at the convent. Talk about stupidity on his part. He should have convinced Treville to send anyone but Aramis back within those four walls. Unconsciously, Athos swayed a little and Porthos and d'Artagnan took it as ominous side-effects of fever and concussion, not the mental anxiety troubling Athos' thoughts.

"It's settled," Porthos declared stepping up to stand face-to-face with Athos, who re-opened his eyes. "You and Aramis are ill. Don't deny it," Porthos raised his large hand to forestall the pending argument. "Ride ahead. To the convent. The nuns there will shelter you. D'Artagnan and I will follow in a day or so with the wagon."

Athos turned to look over at Aramis, who he had a feeling hadn't even been following the conversation. As much as he was willing to risk his own life to do his duty and stay with the wagon, he wouldn't risk Aramis’ life.

Pushing his feelings of guilt aside, Athos reluctantly agreed, but with a twist. "Aramis is suffering from exposure to the cold waters of the river, not to mention the snow. Even I can see he has a fever. It would not be prudent for him to go ahead on his own. So I shall lend you Roger and I will ride with d'Artagnan on the wagon."

Porthos wasn't expecting that twist and he almost agreed when it suddenly dawned on him what Athos had said. "Bloody hell you will!" he exploded with anger. "You do realize you have a fever and probably a concussion to boot."

Using his haute Comte tone, Athos informed Porthos that Treville had put him in charge of this mission and it was his duty to stay with the wagon. 

"Your duty is to get on your horse and get your arse, and Aramis, safely to the convent. Mount up and be grateful I don't smack some sense into you," Porthos threatened, his voice low and dangerous.

For a moment it appeared Athos might defy the streetfighter. Then d'Artagnan spoke up. "Athos, you know as well as we do that Treville is not going to consider it a dereliction of duty for you to take your brother to safety. Look at Aramis."

While they had been arguing, Aramis had attempted to mount his horse, but lacking the strength he was simply leaning, face first, into Fidget's shoulder.

"Aramis!" Porthos groaned as he moved to his brother's side, wrapping his strong arms around him. 

Aramis turned slightly and smiled weakly at his friend. "My foot slipped as I was trying to mount."

"Liar," Porthos flat out accused him. "Are you alright to ride?"

"Yes. I’m sure I can manage. Though perhaps a slight boost into the saddle might be in order."

It wasn't like Aramis to ask for help either, and the plea made Porthos worry about how poorly his brother was really feeling. However, he did as requested and gave Aramis a leg up. Once the musketeer was mounted, he seemed fairly secure in the saddle. Turning back towards Athos, he found the lieutenant had already mounted.

"I'd a helped you too," he told Athos as he walked over to him.

"It wasn't a pretty sight," d'Artagnan ratted out their leader with a sad head shake.

Reaching up, Porthos griped Athos' calf as he looked up at the mounted man. "Take good care of him. You know how he can get when..."

The streetfighter's voice choked, but no more words were need as Athos nodded and reached down to clasp Porthos' arm. "I promise."

"And take care of yourself too," Porthos gruffly added as he turned away so Athos wouldn't see the moisture forming in his deep brown eyes.

Athos gathered up his reins and urged Roger over next to Fidget. "Come, Aramis. We ride for the convent."

Without the passion or spirt that normally drove the jovial Aramis, the marksman blandly nodded and pressed his legs to his mount’s side. As the two musketeers walked passed the wagon, d'Artagnan caught Athos' eye and the senior musketeer nodded in acknowledgment. 

"They’re going to be alright," d'Artagnan half-stated, half-questioned as he watched the pair ride off. "Aramis seems not only ill, but...lost."

"Snow. Reminds him of Savoy," Porthos flatly stated. "Athos knows. He'll watch out for him."

It was obvious that the lad was uncomfortable, especially knowing his mentor was also unwell. But it was the best option they had, so d’Artagnan clucked to the team and got the wagon on its lumbering way through the snow.

Athos kept a tight watch on Aramis as he pushed onward to the convent as fast as he dared. He alternated their gaits to cover ground as quickly as possible without overburdening their beasts or themselves. It became quickly apparent that Aramis was lost in a world of his own, induced by fever, memories of Savoy, or both. Thankfully, Fidget was inclined to follow his stablemate, so no real effort was required on the ailing Aramis' part other than to stay in the saddle, which as a good soldier he had no problem doing. For Athos this was a blessing too, for his own fever, headache and nausea were wearing him down. It didn't help that the snow was falling steadily and the mischievous flakes felt twice as cold when they hit his fevered skin.

As night was falling, the two nearly exhausted musketeers rode thorough the convent’s gates, which according to tradition were open for all to enter. Only once, when the Queen's life was in peril, had they been bolted shut. A nun seemed to appear out of nowhere as Athos fumbled his way off his horse. He kept one hand firmly on his horse's breast plate in order to remain on his feet.

"Sister. I am Athos of the King's Musketeers and this is Aramis of the same. We were sent on a mission by our Queen to deliver a wagonload of... supplies." He had hesitated for a moment trying to come up with the right word fearing gifts might be improper. "Her Majesty, when she was here, noted the charitable works done by this convent and thought some extra supplies might aid in those efforts." Born and raised a Comte, he knew how to turn a phrase.

Silently and suddenly, as she always seemed to appear, the Mother Superior was at his side. "Monsieur Athos. Monsieur Aramis. You have returned. Is our Queen in need of aid again?" she lightly joshed the two musketeers.

Removing his hat, Athos offered her a small bow of respect. "The Queen is safe and well, in no small part due to the aid of yourself and your sisters. She sent a wagonload of supplies in gratitude for the charitable work of your convent. Alas, the snow has delayed its arrival. I would be grateful if Aramis and I could, once again, seek shelter within your walls. Aramis has taken ill from rescuing a child from an icy river."

Mother Superior's sharp eyes missed nothing as she scanned the still mounted musketeer as well as the one on the ground. "These doors are open to all that seek shelter. But I think your friend isn't the only one who has taken ill." 

Like an efficient drill sergeant, Mother Superior began issuing orders and within the space of an hour, the musketeers' horses were stabled and the men ensconced in a chamber with beds, chairs, and a roaring fireplace. One of the nuns who was skilled in the healing arts, entered the chamber and went to aid Aramis, smoothing a healing balm on his abrasions and bruises, and mixing a draught to reduce his fever. When she was done she tucked the unresisting musketeer into one of the beds under a pile of blankets.

When the nun sought to ply her skills on Athos, it had taken a stern glare and disapproving frown from the Mother Superior to get him to submit. The nun cleaned and stitched his head wound, tended to his bruises and abrasions, and much to the musketeer’s chagrin, practically poured the fever-reducing draught down his throat. Afterwards, he was offered a glass of red wine as he sat in front of the fire quietly conversing with the Mother Superior. The two talked for about thirty minutes before the nun noted Athos' drooping eyelids, so she excused herself saying it was time for her evening devotions. Gratefully, Athos dropped into one of the other beds and immediately fell into a deep sleep.

 

Athos spent the next two days mopping his fevered brother's brow, being politely harassed by the nuns to return to his own in bed, and pacing in front of the windows in the rectory, peering into the snowstorm looking for his other brothers. The storm hadn’t let up and intellectually he knew that would greatly hamper the wagon's progress; it could take days for it to be able to traverse the snowy roads. He also knew that if the going got too bad, his brothers would wisely hole up in an inn until this freak snowstorm abated. Still, he couldn't quell his guilt about neglecting his duty and leaving the wagon behind, so he watched, waited, and worried.

Luckily, his own fever broke quickly, though he was still feeling the effects of his mild concussion in the form of a headache, nausea, and tiredness. However, it didn’t stop him from assisting in the care of Aramis, as well as brooding in front of the window. At one point, in the middle of the storm, he tried to head for the convent’s roof so he could better scan the countryside. But Mother Superior got wind of his intentions and put her small, but powerful foot down.

He never imagined himself being held hostage by a nun, but at one point, when he declared he was going to ride forth and look for the missing wagon, it had occurred. Mother Superior had reminded him of her trusty gun for shooting rabbits and Protestants. Then the iron maiden proceeded to ask what his religious affiliation was because she was thinking he might be Protestant. He had taken the none-to-subtle hint and had backed down from his idea to go wagon hunting. Instead, he went back to pacing by the windows, when not at Aramis' side. 

On the third day, Aramis rose from his bed much recovered and the caretaker nun allowed him to move about the convent to help him regain his strength. The marksman found his brother, later that afternoon, broodingly staring out the windows that offered a view of the road leading to the convent. The snow was still gently falling though it appeared to be tapering off.

Athos spared quick look over his shoulder when he heard Aramis' approaching. "Doing better I see."

Aramis hid his smile at the nonchalant tone of his brother. Try as he might to hide his emotions, Aramis knew Athos had been by his side during the worst of his malady, ignoring his own well-being. The nuns had noted Athos' devotion and mentioned it to Aramis, saying it must be a comfort to have such a close friend in times of need.

“I never had a chance to express my gratitude for helping me save the child…and myself…from the river.” Aramis noted that Athos gave him a quick head nod to show he heard, but kept his attention focused on the empty, snow-covered road. 

Peering out the window, Aramis scanned the pristine snow-covered road below. "No sign of the wagon yet? I'm surprised you’re not scouring the countryside or at least on the convent's roof watching," he said jokingly until he saw the tell-tale tightening of Athos' jawline. While Athos might appear a closed book to most, his brothers knew how to read him fairly well. "You did try to leave, didn't you?”

Athos sighed as he carefully ran a hand through his hair, avoiding the cut on his scalp. "Mother Superior is a formidable woman."

"She threatened you? With what? Eternal damnation?"

"I'm already damned," Athos mumbled, never removing his gaze from the snowy landscape outside the window. 

Mother Superior, who had been walking by, overheard the interchange. "God doesn’t damn the good.” 

Athos kept his back to the nun either ignoring her or pretending he hadn't heard her words. 

"Perhaps you would be so kind as to show me to your chapel," Aramis requested, trying to move past the awkward moment that was forming. "It has been a while since I have been able to pray in a house of God."

“Of course. This way,” the head nun replied as she realized that her comment had unintentionally caused an awkwardness. Once they were out of earshot, she observed, “I sensed it last time and see it again here. It appears that Athos has had a falling out with God.”

“You might say that,” Aramis slowly agreed, his voice tinged with regret. “Our brother seems to feel that something he did in his past has damned his soul to hell.”

They walked in silence until they reached the convent’s chapel, which was a simple affair with a few rows of pews, crucifix and a statue of the Virgin Mary, head still attached. 

“I’ll leave you to your prayers then, Monsieur. But rest assured I shall pray that the light of God shines upon Athos and he understands that Our Father loves and forgives us no matter what.”

“You might be praying for a very long time,” Aramis muttered under his breath. The nun looked at him questioningly and he added a bit more loudly, “Thank you, Sister. I’m sure he’ll appreciate that.” 

The skeptical look the Mother Superior gave him before she turned and walked away said it all. 

Later that evening when the two musketeers joined the nuns for their evening repast, Aramis noted Athos wasn’t applying himself to the simple, but tasty meal. Adding lack of appetite to the fact that during the day he had caught Athos massaging his temples and the back of his neck more than once, he concluded that the effects of the swordsman’s concussion were still plaguing him. The marksman thought about asking Athos, while they were sitting at the table, but quickly dismissed the thought, knowing that it was highly unlikely Athos would admit to being unwell, especially in front of an audience. So he kept his suspicions to himself.

After dinner, when Athos had gone off to check the windows once more, Aramis sought out the nun with the medical knowledge and asked if he might avail himself of her supplies to mix a draught for his ailing friend. Knowing Athos needed more sleep than he was allowing himself, Aramis topped off his concoction with a narcotic to make the stubborn man rest. 

Taking the cup back to their shared room, he found Athos hunched over in a chair near the fire, head in his hands. Placing the vessel on the edge of the fireplace, he sat in the chair near Athos, then noted the man’s hair was wet and that there were little puddles of water by his booted feet.

“Athos? Why are you wet?” 

Athos didn’t reply and he kept his head bowed into his hands, which were trembling slightly. 

“You’re cold. You need to get out of those wet clothes,” Aramis ordered as he stood. “Get up.”

Sluggishly, but without a fight, Athos raised his head and with a grunt, heaved himself to his feet. Slowly, the shivering man began to pull his sopping wet shirt over his head. When it seemed he was stuck and making no progress, Aramis stepped in to assist. 

“How in the world did you get this wet?” Aramis asked, as he held the dripping shirt in his hand. Gesturing for the swordsman to sit again, Aramis dropped the water-logged garment on the floor then helped tug off Athos’ boots.

As his left boot came off, Athos sighed, then explained. “I went on the roof to see if there was any sign of the wagon.”

“In the cold, and dark, without a jacket,” Aramis scolded as he worked on removing Athos’ right boot.

“I thought there was a moon. I was wrong. It was dark. Very dark.”

“I see,” the marksman commented as he successfully yanked Athos’ second boot off, then picked up the pair and placed them near to the fire to dry. 

“Is it raining now? Because I thought it was snowing.” He signaled Athos to remove his wet breeches and braies, while he walked over to the bed and removed the blanket from it. Once Athos was naked, he handed him the blanket to wrap around his body to keep warm. 

The swordsman eagerly swathed himself with the cloth before resettling in the chair by the fire, worn out by the simple act of removing his wet clothes. He leaned his head back in the chair, closed his eyes, and unconsciously massaged his temples.

“Do you have another set of clothes in your saddlebags or shall I hunt through mine?” Aramis queried, noting the swordsman's headache must be flaring.   
Athos weakly waved to the corner where his bags had been placed. Moving over to them, Aramis removed a pair of braies, socks, and a shirt and brought them back to Athos. 

“I still fail to see how you got so wet,” Aramis declared as he draped the clothes near the fire to warm up before he made Athos put them on.

“It would appear,” Athos said wearily as he dropped his hands into his lap, “that cleanliness is next to Godliness and the nuns are fond of bathing. They have a large cistern on the roof, to catch rain water.”

“And unsuspecting musketeers,” Aramis tacked on with a sly grin. 

Athos cracked his eyes enough to give Aramis an unamused glare. “It was dark.”

“Yes, I do believe you mentioned that. Very dark,” he parroted back to the displeased man.

“There was a platform, on the roof, and I climbed on top of it to see better. It flanked the cistern. The boards were icy. A strong gust of wind hit me. I slipped…”

“And fell into the water,” Aramis concluded cheekily before turning serious. “You’re lucky you didn’t drown. It was stupid to go up there alone in your condition, Athos.

Athos nodded as he closed his eyes again and let his chin drop to his chest. “I’m worried,” he whispered with brutal honesty. “For the safety of our brothers.”

Aramis did his best to reassure his friend even though he had the same worrisome thoughts. “D'Artagnan and Porthos are well able to take care of themselves. I’m sure they are holed up in an inn, playing cards and waiting out this nasty weather.”

Athos didn’t respond, but began to massage his forehead again.

“Here. Drink this,” Aramis instructed as he retrieved the draught from the edge of the hearth. “It will help with your headache and nausea. And since the nuns have a beehive, from which they collected honey in the summer, I was able to sweeten it nicely.”

Proving how poorly he felt, Athos accepted the cup without an argument. After downing it, he fully opened his eyes and glanced over at Aramis, who had sat in the other chair. “The beehive. I remember. They used it as a weapon, Mother Superior and Isabel.” 

A small expression of pain crossed Aramis’ face at the mention of Isabel, and it didn’t go unnoticed by Athos. However, as much as he wanted to ask Aramis about her, he found his eyelids growing increasingly heavy. “You drugged this, didn’t you?”

“Yes. I did. You need to rest, Athos. You have been neglecting your health for mine. Now let’s get you dressed and into bed before you fall asleep in that chair.”

As much as he wanted to protest, Athos couldn’t find the strength so he let Aramis help him dress and lead him to the bed. 

“Mother Superior is praying for your immortal soul once more,” Aramis remarked as he tucked a second blanket around Athos.

Athos shifted to his side and mumbled as he drifted off, “Formidable woman, but a patron of lost causes.”

“You’re not a lost cause, Athos,” Aramis whispered softly as he tucked the blanket closer around the sleeping man.

 

Athos woke with an urgent need and stiff muscles that indicated he had been asleep for a very long time. Crawling out of the nice warm bed, he found the chamber pot and took care of the first issue. Time and some gentle stretching would take care of the other one.

Donning his pants and boots, splashing some water on his face and running a hand through his wavy hair, he decided he was as put together as he was going to get. Leaving the room, he immediately headed for the front of the convent and the windows overlooking the road. The landscape was blinding bright as the sun shone on the undisturbed snow. With a sigh, Athos turned from the window, knowing the wagon couldn’t have arrived while he slept since the snow remained unmarked. At least the snowstorm was over so maybe soon his wayward brothers would arrive.

Judging by the light, he guessed it was late-afternoon, meaning he had slept for almost a whole day. Damn Aramis and his potions. Wandering into the rectory area where the long tables at which the nuns ate were located, he saw a few of them busily peeling vegetables for the evening repast. 

One of them, Sister Agnes he thought, glanced up at him and smiled. “Monsieur Athos. You look as if you are feeling better.”

He inclined his head slightly, though he didn’t verbally acknowledge her comment. Instead, he asked, “Would you know where Aramis is?”

“Yes. He headed down to the storage room, to fetch a bottle of our brandy for dinner. Sister Mary uses it in the stew. Makes it quite tasty.”

Athos wasn’t so sure that it wouldn’t be better to drink it straight, but he kept his thought to himself. 

“He has been gone a while though,” Sister Agnes tacked on as she started to rise.

Swiftly jumping in with hopes of not only retrieving Aramis but a bottle of brandy to drink, Athos declared, “I’ll go look for him. Make sure he hasn’t gotten distracted. I recall the way.” He gestured for the nun to resume her seat, then moved towards the basement level of the convent.

As the musketeer wound his way into the labyrinth of the basement, he couldn’t help recalling the last time he had been here and how close they had come to losing the Queen. Rounding a corner, he entered the storage room where the brandy was kept and was greeted by the sight of Aramis, kneeling on the floor, and though his back was to him, Athos could hear the man was sobbing. Rapidly moving to his brother’s side, he saw Aramis was clutching a bottle of brandy to his chest like a talisman.

“Aramis! What is wrong?” Athos queried as his eyes scanned the room for some unrecognized danger.

With his free hand, Aramis scrubbed his wet eyes with abashment. Looking up at his concerned friend, he smiled weakly. “Don’t mind me. Stupidly mourning a past long gone.”

Athos’ eyes showed sympathy for his brother for he knew what it was like to be haunted by the past. With a slight groan, he squatted next to Aramis on the stone floor then lightly ran his fingers over its surface remembering the nun who had died in this very spot. There was an odd edge to his voice when he asked, “Do you wish she would have remained forever lost in the past? Or did you find…closure… seeing her again?”

Aramis glanced over at the green eyes intently studying him. Knowing what he knew of Athos’ past, he realized this was a highly unusual and very personal question. Taking a swig from the green glass bottle in his hand, he handed it off to Athos, who eagerly took it as he settled on the ground. 

“That is a hard question. I’m grateful to know Isabel had a life that she felt suited her after we were separated. However, love never dies. Though she thought we couldn’t have made a life together, a small part of me wants to believe that was not true. Will my whole life be nothing more than a lonely death on some battlefield? Will there not be a time when I have served France well and will be allowed a life other than a soldier? The comfort of a wife and children?” 

At the mention of children, Athos took a long hard pull from the bottle in his hand then handed it to Aramis. He was a very observant man, able to put small pieces together into a larger puzzle and though he might not be totally astute with his own emotions, he was good with understanding others. “Isabel's death, did it drive you into the Queen’s arms?”

Sighing, Aramis polished off the bottle, rose, grabbed another one from the shelf, uncorked it and took a long swig. Grabbing a second bottle, he moved back to where Athos sat on the floor, handed him the second bottle, then walked over and slid down the wall. Stretching his long legs in front of him, he took another pull from his bottle. 

“It’s not as simple as that nor all that complicated. I know this sounds like hubris, but there has been a connection between the Queen and me, since that day at the prison. Neither she nor I sought it, yet something was there.”

Picking himself up, Athos moved over by Aramis, sitting and using the wall as a back rest. Uncorking the bottle in his hand, he took a long swig from it, enjoying the warming feeling of the brandy as it slid down his throat. “Yet knowing what you were doing was treason, you still did it.”

“Again, you seek to oversimplify a complex situation. Anne was scared. I think she feared her life might end. I was emotionally unsettled. Seeing Isabel after all those years. What she said… about us. Having her die in my arms.” Aramis’ raised his brown eyes to stare off into the distance. “No matter what Isabel thought, I would have cherished our family, our child.” Aramis took another drink before he continued. “Then Anne spoke of the loss of her own child, her loveless marriage, and…” he tipped the bottle to his lips again, “we found solace in each other’s arms.”

Athos emptied a good portion of his bottle thinking over what Aramis said. He knew he tended to see the world in black and white and that the grey zone was what he had trouble assimilating. “You endangered the Queen’s life, your own, and France.”

“And your life,” Aramis added softly. “And for that I am sorry. Believe what you will, Athos, but I love Anne.”

Draining his bottle of brandy, Athos let his temper loose and threw the bottle against the far wall where it shattered into pieces. “Love,” he spat as he rose and moved to the shelf to grab another bottle of brandy and begin to swill it. “Lord what fools these mortals be.” Athos moved back to the wall and slid down it to the floor once more. 

Made bold by the alcohol coursing through his veins, Aramis accused his normally reserved friend. “You had your second chance, but you didn’t kill your wife. Why do you suppose that is?” Aramis asked rhetorically, having no intentions of letting Athos answer, for he knew the man wouldn’t provide an honest reply. “I’ll tell you why.” Draining his bottle, as if for courage to continue, Aramis declared, “Because you still love her. And it prays on your soul that she is evil and you still can love her.”

The thunderous scowl on Athos’ face told Aramis his statement was accurate. Unfortunately, Aramis didn’t realize he was devastating the man next to him, who felt like his deepest secrets had just been ripped from his very soul. 

“Damn you, Aramis,” Athos growled as he downed the second bottle of brandy. Standing, the musketeer moved across the room, the empty bottle dangling from his left hand while his right hand scrubbed his face.

“Now you see what a monster I truly am. An idiot. A fool. Anne murders my brother, and yet I am too much of a coward…I run away…I…,” his voice trailed off as he leaned against the rack holding the brandy bottles. “I am responsible for every death she has caused since then. It is I who nearly got the Queen of France killed!” Once again, he threw the empty bottle at the wall where it shattered into shards.

Grabbing another bottle, he broke the neck off on the edge of the shelf and drank directly from the jagged-edged opening. “And…I…let…her…go…again!” Turning his own tortured green eyes on Aramis, he croaked, “How many more people have I just condemned to death at her evil hands? Why the hell didn’t I kill her!”

Draining the bottle, he dropped it to the floor before reaching for another. However, Aramis appeared at his side, stopping him from uncorking the bottle. 

“No more, Mon ami,” he declared as he removed the bottle from Athos’ fingers. “Drowning yourself in alcohol will not ease the pain, well not long term.” Aramis glanced at the half-empty bottle in his hand that he had been drinking from, and let it slide from his fingers to crash on the floor. “We have both had enough.” 

Placing his hands on Athos’ shoulders, he got the miserable man to look at him. “Whether you like it or not, I believe there will always be a piece of your heart that loves her. And because of that, you can’t kill her.”

Athos’ eyes searched Aramis’ face, as if trying to ascertain the truth of his words. “She will hurt someone else, and that will be on me.”

“Her fate, both on this earth and in the afterlife is in God’s hands, not yours. You did your duty as the Comte de la Fére when you hanged her for killing your brother.” Holding up a hand to forestall Athos comments, “Yes, that failed. It was an error in judgement for you to ride off, as it was for me to sleep with the Queen. But you were hurting Athos, having to hang the woman you loved. You need to stop blaming yourself for her evil.”

However, Aramis could see that was never going to happen; the scar on his brother’s soul was too deep. He let his hands drop from Athos’ shoulders, knowing he would never be able to convince the swordsman he should forgive himself. The only thing Aramis could do was stay by his best friend’s side and help him to cope, and ensure he didn’t get himself killed doing something stupid in compensation for his misplaced guilt.

Stumbling away, Athos swiped another bottle off the shelf, moved back over to the wall and slid down it to sit on the stone floor. He uncorked the bottle, took a swig, and waved Aramis over to share. “I think I would have liked your father if this is what he made,” he declared as he handed the bottle to Aramis.

With a sigh, Aramis accepted, vowing this would be the last bottle they consumed. He wasn’t sure how he was going to explain this mess or their condition to Mother Superior. 

“I am sorry about Isabel's death. About your loss. I am sorry I did not offer you any solace when she passed,” Athos said, genuinely remorseful. 

Aramis shrugged and took a drink. “You were a tad busy with affairs of state.”

“I should have been more attentive to the sorrow of my brother. I have my own guilty role to play in your liaison with the Queen. I am sorry, my brother.”

Aramis had to chuckle slightly. Leave it to Athos to find a guilty role in which to wallow. 

“No matter what, I will stand by you, Aramis. And if we end up hanging, side by side, know I will always be grateful for the friendship and kindness you have shown me,” Athos said as he took the bottle and drank a salute to his brother. 

Like the specter she could be, Mother Superior appeared to materialize suddenly out of thin air in front of the drunken musketeers.

“I could lecture you on the evils of drink as laid out by our Lord, but I fear in your current state, you’d not retain it,” she said wryly as she stared at the two sloshed men on the ground. 

The two musketeers looked at each other then shrugged. “I drink to forget, not remember,” Athos stated in a formal manner. 

Aramis realized a truer statement had never passed this man’s lips. “We will thoroughly clean up the mess we have made to your storeroom.”

The nun gave a knowing smile. “You’ll have some help for your missing brothers have just pulled into our courtyard.”

It made the nun smile to see the look of joy on the musketeers' faces. Using each other as a support system, the two tipsy musketeers scrambled to their feet and headed for the courtyard, leaving the nun behind in their fumbling hurry to reach their long-lost brothers. When the two coatless musketeers stepped into the courtyard, the chilly air partially sobered them. Luckily, the sun was low on the horizon so the glare from the snow wasn’t unbearable on their eyes. Hearty hugs and handshakes went all around as the four men relished each other’s company. 

The Mother Superior, who had paused in the doorway, observed the heartfelt reunion and she sent a little prayer of thanks to her God for providing this deliverance. It was abundantly obvious, the love and brotherhood among these good men. She could easily see why the Queen trusted her life to these musketeers.

Porthos held Aramis at arm’s length for a moment as he studied him. “We’re out busting our asses in the snow and you’re here toasty warm and getting drunk?” Glancing over at Athos, he added, “Both of you?”

In that regal Comte voice Athos could turn off and on at will, he factually stated, “We were testing the nuns' brandy for quality control purposes.” A small smirk escaped his lips. “It passed.”

“Yeah, well I’m freezing,” d’Artagnan complained. “Let’s get this wagon unloaded and stowed away and then we can all enjoy the fruits of the nuns' labors.”

It quickly became apparent that neither Aramis or Athos was really being helpful in unloading the wagon in their inebriated state. They were banished into the convent, where they returned to their room and quickly fell asleep. 

After the cart was empty, the Mother Superior invited d’Artagnan and Porthos to sup with them since their companions were still sound asleep. Both men were grateful for a warm place to sit and hot food in their bellies. It had been a long and frigid trip through the deep snow with the bulky wagon. 

“Did something happen, Sister?” Porthos asked in his direct manner after they had finished eating and were being shown back to the chamber by the head nun. “It’s not like Athos or Aramis to get drunk like that while on duty so to speak.”

The Mother Superior stopped in the hallway for a moment to consider the question. “The illness had taken a toll on them along with the worry for your well-being. And,” she paused for a moment, “I feel there is something they are working out between them.” 

With that, she set off down the hall again. As Athos had feared, she was sharp and not unskilled herself at putting together pieces of a puzzle to form a picture. She knew something had happened at the convent the last time Aramis and Athos were here with the Queen, though she didn’t know what. However, hearing the Queen was now pregnant, the timing, especially since she had been barren for so long and given the unease between the two musketeers, the nun couldn’t help speculating. She had a sneaking feeling that Athos and Aramis had a dark secret between them that they were not sharing with their brothers, even though she knew their bond was tight. And it was because of that love, she suspected, that Aramis and Athos didn’t want to share, for if it was what she thought, they would all meet their maker upon the gallows. 

So she decided to keep her thoughts to herself and simply say, “God works in mysterious ways, but always for the good.” With that, she turned away and left them.

In the room, Aramis and Athos were sacked out on their beds, sound asleep. Quietly, d’Artagnan and Porthos divested themselves of their weapons, boots, and coats before crawling into the two empty beds in the room. Tomorrow would be another day to tell the tale of their journey to the convent and to try to pry from their brothers what had occurred here in their absence. They were just grateful tonight that they were all reunited once more.

 

THE END


End file.
